


Crescendo

by idiosyncratic_starcluster



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Developing Relationship, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Hugs, M/M, Michael Possessing Adam Milligan, because it doesn't seem much to me but i promise it ends well!, no for real it's all about h u g s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:34:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28904949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idiosyncratic_starcluster/pseuds/idiosyncratic_starcluster
Summary: The first time they hug, it’s actually Adam who starts it, and Michael doesn’t hug him back. But he doesn’t reject him, either.
Relationships: Michael/Adam Milligan
Comments: 8
Kudos: 53





	Crescendo

**Author's Note:**

> me: oh so it’s hug day? cute! maybe i could… idk do something?  
> also me, 1.8k words later: what the hell is this thing w h y—

The first time they hug, it’s actually Adam who starts it, and Michael doesn’t hug him back. But he doesn’t reject him, either: he stays as stiff as a board, the projection of his consciousness doesn’t budge. He registers the warmth of Adam’s soul’s embodiment against him though, and it… isn’t big. But somehow, gently, the gesture alone strikes through the cold latched onto his wings and the effect of the cage.  
  
Michael is not keen on affection, it isn’t something he’s used to — and everything in the most hidden part of his core is screaming and begging for answers to a hundred different _whys_. Nevertheless, this human soul embraces him. and its— no, _his_ empathy and the stubbornness of his act of caring get through to him. solid yet soft. And he doesn’t hug him back, he can’t. instead, Michael exhales and lets him.

  
The second time they hug, it’s Michael who starts it — with a gentle pull and a new note in his voice — and Adam sinks into his arms without a second thought. His heart is a heavy syringe of bitter frustration and shattered, fragile hope and slithering despair; he has kept it together for centuries, and he has never meant to break like this. But he is only human, or at least he hopes so. He must be, in a way, because the moment he feels Michael’s buzzing, solid, warm body against his own, the first real contact in a monstrously long time, something in Adam’s soul flares up, and a high peak of emotion overwhelms him.  
  
He hugs Michael tightly and presses his face against the crook of his neck, and Michael… He just holds him. his arms around his shoulders and a gentle motion that silently speaks of a feeling that shouldn’t be able to bloom in the deepest part of Hell. Yet there it is, in that hug, and in the threads of grace cradling a human soul.  


The first time they physically hug, and many other times after that, it’s a revelation to be found under the sunlight, and Michael has been in love with Adam for four hundred sixty-seven years.

They have been close for centuries, and in a way, they are always touching: grace and soul entwine with ease. Now that Adam can control their body as well — now that they are outside of Hell — he notices that the contact itself sets off goosebumps and a fluttering feeling all over him. Something else he knows now is that Michael's apparition radiates warmth as any other person does. And that is enough for his hands to itch, wanting to actually feel it— _feel him._ Michael, who looks at his vessel, the person he treasures the most, and tilts his head in that way of his. 

When he traces his fingers along Adam’s wrist to get to his slightly trembling hand, it’s like burning fire and freshwater all at once.

When Adam is ripped away from him and disappears, all of creation loses its colors and its meaning. Michael is left with a kind of pain, sharp and cold like he never felt it in eons of existence, the memory of warm smiles and sweet-flavored skin, and the echo of a tiny speck of soul clinging to his writhing grace. Michael embraces it until that disappears, too.

When Adam wakes up on the shore of a lake and the absence of the magnificent mass of burning light that is michael pangs through his chest like a drum, the mere act of _breathing_ feels like swallowing glass, and the world crushes on him. Right there and then, with every second he spends praying in his mind and out loud. Hot tears stream down his cheeks and his chest hurts, but he keeps calling.

There is no answer, and suddenly it’s like the first years in the Cage again — except, this is worse. And even after he gathers himself and push forward, no matter how much time passes and where he is, it _hurts_. 

Because everything is just too cold now; because all that Adam has left is the memory of impossibly blue eyes and storm-flavored crooked smiles, and the echo of a tiny speck of archangel grace clinging to his aching soul. He expects it to fade away, sometimes _he would want it to fade away_ , but oddly enough, it never happens. 

That’s the first sign.

The prolonged contact with… with a celestial entity and their stay in the Cage has left Adam with a sort of sixth sense, enhanced empathy if you will. He knows that Turin carries a heavy atmosphere of ancient magic that is both captivating and intoxicating all at once, because he remembers having to blink multiple times to stop seeing Piazza Castello flickering right in front of him between past and present like a malfunctioning switch. He knows there were two long lost reincarnated soulmates back in Canterbury, because their vibes were mismatched in terms of time but both girls looked at each other like… like he and Michael did. And— 

_He knows_ that Michael is not dead, because when Adam goes back to the shore — eventually; call it a need, an impulse, whatever — a breeze ruffles his air and tickles his face, carrying the scent of storms and divinity and fire within.

It makes Adam’s heart pound and ache; his soul longs, fiercer than he allowed himself to do in a long time, and the speck of grace tucked into it rings with recognition. 

Adam’s lips move on their own, incredulous. _“Michael?”_

He’s there, in the air. holding on, _existing_ , and— Adam can’t bring himself to stay, but he comes back a week later, only to feel the presence latched onto that place stronger. It dawns on him then, and so he waits, doing his best to soothe the itch of his hands.

Even though there are hurt feelings from both of them if there is anything worth saving this is their relationship. What was broken can be fixed with patience and care, even if it will never be the same. The final proof of this lays in Michael’s grace.  
  
Adam says _‘yes’_ like he did a couple of lifetimes ago, and when iridescent light cascades into him and his vision goes black, he finds himself engulfed by two arms, tackled in a hug, and floating among dazzling, familiar light. Michael materializes in the projection of a body against Adam’s and breathes in — such a human, unnecessary act — while his grace and Adam’s soul tangle and link in a whirlwind.

_“Adam.”_

Sounds and colors of shared memories redound everywhere in flashes.

> _They’re in the Cage; the human is sitting across from him in the faux room his consciousness evocated. Michael glares at him, he glares right back. Two hundred years later, their arms brush, but it doesn’t bother Michael enough to budge. Later on, when Adam hugs him, Michael doesn’t hug him back. But he doesn’t reject him, either._
> 
> _They’re in a small motel room somewhere in Venezuela. Michael is looking at him with furrowed brows and deadpanned confusion that only makes Adam grin wider. “Come on, don’t just stand there,” he says, patting the empty spot next to him._
> 
> _Michael scoffs a little. “I’m perfectly fine standing here.” And yet, not even a minute later he’s finally on the bed, too. Adam looks at him pointedly and Michael sighs in frustration before laying down. “Are you happy now?”_
> 
> _Adam scoots closer, wrapping his arm around Michael’s shoulders and tugging until he can finally nod, feeling his hair against his lips, and say, “Yeah, peachy.”_
> 
> _They’re in a filthy bunker, and Michael would be incredibly close to considering the idea of breaking them free of those stupid cuffs the Winchesters and Castiel think are enough to hold him down if he wasn’t too preoccupied with the clashing of the temptation to_ ask the question _and eons of faith and devotion. Adam is sitting at the table, piloting their body, and Michael may be struggling to make sense of his thoughts and emotions he never had the opportunity nor the necessity or even the capacity to display, but he doesn’t miss the soothing feeling of Adam’s touch and, on impulse, while Adam rubs his handcuffed hands, fingers tracing over knuckles, Michael’s grip on his apparition’s crossed arms relaxes. His fingers trace the fabric of the jacket without moving. He doesn’t need confirmation to know Adam can feel the embrace, too._
> 
> _They’re in the Cage, and Adam has never meant to break like this, but the moment he feels Michael’s buzzing, solid, warm body against his own, the first real contact in a monstrously long time, something in his soul flares up, and a high peak of emotion overwhelms him. He hugs Michael tightly and presses his face against the crook of his neck, and Michael… He just holds him._
> 
> _They’re on a beach. The sun is high in the sky and the sand is hot, or at least this is what Adam said before stepping into the water, with the hem of his trousers rolled up and a surprised, yet delighted gasp leaving his lips. He wobbles a little, but Michael makes sure he doesn’t fall… yet. This is the first time he gets to see the ocean, the archangel knows it, and after such a long time of imprisonment, even he finds himself breathing in that rich, salty scent and marvel at the sight in front of them. Even so, the vast blue sea can’t compare to seeing Adam turn around to look at him with eyes as shiny and bright as the sky at dawn and a beam that thrives from happiness and laugher. He’s beautiful. Michael smiles back, breaking out in a chuckle when Adam tackles him in a hug. Michael lets them waddle from side to side playfully. Adam’s soul sings with mirth; Michael’s grace does, too._
> 
> _“I don’t know much, about any of this—"_
> 
> _"Maybe I should pick up some kinda little job.”_
> 
> _“A little job?”_
> 
> _“You and I…”_
> 
> _“We only had each other.”_
> 
> _“Go for it, kid.”_
> 
> _“I mean, these are the same clothes we went to Hell in.”_
> 
> _“…have been together for years.”_
> 
> _“We’re gonna have expenses, right?”_
> 
> _“—you’ll be my guide.”_
> 
> _“You still care about that?”_

Michael hugs Adam, and Adam hugs him back, squeezing his eyes shut and _reaching_. Michael welcomes him; his grace is scarred — still bright, still burning, with thin vines of iridescent gold where it was shattered — but even so, it’s still the same grace, the same love. Only— well, bigger.

Michael rests his forehead against Adam’s and in the blink of an eye they’re on the shore, still engulfed in each other. He has never been keen on affection before, but that was then, a couple of lifetimes ago. Now though, Adam is hugging him, and Michael hugs him back.

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know what came over me but alright, sure. anyway! there are a lot of headcanons squeezed in here. one of the biggest ones is the description of michael's grace at the end, which is a reference to the term kintsugi — meaning, and i quote, the art of repairing broken pottery by mending the areas of breakage with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum. as a philosophy, it treats breakage and repair as part of the history of an object, rather than something to disguise the.
> 
> not only does it apply to him, it's also how i envision their relationship: ultimately, adam and michael would never throw it away without working on it and fixing it. and i think it says a lot about them.
> 
> that being said, i hope it...wasn't too bad...? and of course, if you made it this far, thank you for reading!


End file.
